


Long Way 'Round

by ensorcel



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Older Woman/Younger Woman, colour soulmate au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-21 06:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19997104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ensorcel/pseuds/ensorcel
Summary: Miranda had never quite believed in the point of soulmates, but in a world with nearly no colour, she knew she wanted them.Soulmate Universe: Colour is revealed as each person gains a soulmate.





	Long Way 'Round

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All rights reserved to Twentieth Century Fox and Laura Weisberger. Any characters recognized don't belong to me. 
> 
> Great thanks to [zigostia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/pseuds/zigostia) for saving this story.

**********I.**

Miriam was four when she learnt the concept of colour. 

“There is colour to everything,” Mommy quietly explained. “For example, the sky is blue and the trees are green.”

“How?” Miriam piped up, tucking her legs underneath her and looking brightly at Mommy. “How are the trees green?” 

Mommy gave her one of her small smiles, the ones where it looked like she wanted to grin more but couldn’t. “It just is.” 

“But how do you know if something is green?” 

“It’ll come to you, darling. It just does,” Mommy answered cryptically, and straightened her skirts as she got up to attend back to the stove, giving Miriam a pat on the shoulder. Miriam gave a small huff and curled back up in her chair. 

“But Mommy—” 

“It’ll come to you, dear. Don’t worry about it.” Mommy gave her a tight lipped smile and continued to stir the pot, back and forth, back and forth. 

“Can you see colour?” The innocent question slipped as Miriam absentmindedly fiddled with the loose threads on her Sunday best cotton-candy-blue dress. 

“Yes, yes of course I can. I met your daddy, didn’t I?” Mommy replied, still focusing on dinner. 

“Did someone say daddy?” a voice exclaimed, and Miriam flew out of her seat. 

“Daddy!” she yelled, jumping into her father’s arms. Burying her head into his shoulder, he ran a hand through her blonde locks, chuckling softly. 

“How was your day?” Mommy asked as she started to chop vegetables. Daddy kissed Mommy on the cheek and flung Miriam into the air, her hair sprawling out. 

“Just fine, but even better now that I’m home!” Miriam giggled as Daddy set her back into her chair, smoothing out her skirts. “What did you do today?” 

Miriam beamed, propping her head up on the table with her elbows. “Mommy made me pancakes for breakfast and then we went to the park with Andrew and Helen!” Her hands gestured animatedly as she described her day. “Do you know what colour is?” 

Daddy looked at her intently, cocking his head. “Of course I do, darling. I met your Mommy, didn’t I?” he replied, repeating what her mother had said before. Strange. “My favourite colour is blue.” 

“Like the sky!” Miriam excitedly concluded. Daddy chuckled. 

“Yes, just like the sky.” Miriam watched as Mommy and Daddy exchanged a glance. She thought she saw them smile. 

**II.**

Katie was the first person in Miriam’s grade to see colour. Just starting out into her fourth year, Katie gasped dramatically and loudly, so loud in fact that everyone on the playground could hear her. Miriam rolled her eyes and went back to reading her book, just crouched underneath the large willow tree that grew along the sides of school campus. 

Katie was the first person in Miriam’s grade to see colour and she was the first person to never shut up about it. 

“Lavender is probably my favourite,” she fawned, as multiple girls crowded around her, as though Katie had announced she was engaged and showing off the ring on her finger. Miriam had never cared much about those things. It had been years since her mother picked up and left, claiming that though yes, she had seen colour, she hadn’t seen it all. Miriam wasn’t too sure what Mother meant, but what she knew was that it broke Father’s heart. 

Soulmates were useless anyways. Miriam had a plan. Work hard in school, graduate, and make her way to the daring towers of New York City. Out of this pithole of failed dreams and unwanted futures. It didn’t matter if Katie could see colour. Miriam was going to make it big. She was going to make it out. 

(She wasn’t going to end up like Mother.) 

Katie might’ve had the nicest dresses, prettiest smile, and the ability to see lavender, but Miriam was going places. 

Soulmates didn’t matter anyways. (She kept this sentiment beside her, settled next to her heart, and told herself it didn’t matter if she didn’t know how beautiful lavender was.) 

Soulmates didn’t matter anyways, the chant spinning round and round in her head. 

Who needed lavender in the first place? 

**III.**

The first colour she saw was a beautiful navy blue. Mother was right, when she said that you would just know. Miranda had never seen navy blue before, but this was it, she knew. This was it.

Samuel Priestly stood across her, waving a hand expectantly, but Miranda had frozen. _Navy blue, Samuel Priestly._ Somehow, it fitted perfectly, like a puzzle with it’s final piece. Mother had told her that the colours come slowly, but Miranda didn’t know if they were supposed to come _this_ slowly. No reds, purples, or greens. Just navy, navy blue. 

It looked like the ocean on the coldest of nights, like those nights in the myths told thousands of years ago where young men were seduced by the evil, beautiful daughters of the sea and yanked to their long, lonely deaths. Navy, navy, cold blue. (In the future, would anyone be surprised that the first colour Ice Queen Miranda Priestly saw was the dark blue of sailor’s nightmares?) 

But Miranda Princhek was brilliant at taking what she had, and this was what she had. Make do. 

He’s not bad looking, she mused. Not bad looking and quite smart too. No, this wasn’t the worst. 

But as he motioned for her to hurry up, Miranda’s hope couldn’t help but sink a little. 

Soulmates didn’t matter anyways, but Miranda wanted colour. She wanted its beauty, to create, to merge, to build. 

“Come on!” 

Samuel’s sharp yelling shattered through her. (It could be said that this was when Miranda’s fate for failed soulmates started.) 

Scurrying across the street, Miranda greeted him with a kiss on the cheek, and silently thanked the man for her first colour. She couldn’t stand the slight stubble that he thought was fashionable and those shoes were absolutely hideous, but when he wrapped an arm around her waist, she thought that maybe, just maybe, she could live like this. _Miranda Priestly._ Sounded a little bit like heaven, didn’t it? 

But when Samuel pulled her in for their first kiss—which was on a cold winter's day with Miranda’s stockings almost freezing off her—she wondered if a moustache was supposed to be this uncomfortable, and if kissing your soulmate was supposed to make your heart drop. 

Law student and newly-coined associate editor of Vogue magazine had never seemed so perfect, what a match made in heaven, but all Miranda felt was cold.

When he dropped to one knee and the expected proposal slipped from his mouth Miranda thought she hesitated. (Looking back, she’d hoped she’d hesitated.) But the “yes” was too easy and the ring was too big and Miranda was too cold. _Navy, navy blue._ Was this what the sea felt like? 

The wedding was a bliss, she remembered telling people. “The happiest day of my life,” she exclaimed, to anyone who would listen. It was the closest she’s ever gotten to gushing. 

Her dress was mediocre, the food barely eaten, and the vows nearly forced out of her mouth, but as she said _the words_ , a sinking pit dropped into her stomach. Like the walls had come crashing down on her. 

“You may kiss the bride,” the priest happily announced, and Samuel—clean-shaven now, thank god—wrapped his strong arms around her waist, and never had she wanted to fly so bad. To drop the block of ice in her chest and leave. 

Miranda wondered if her mother’s wedding night was the first time she’d wanted to flee. 

(Because he came and she didn’t but that was expected, right?) 

Was a marriage supposed to feel so icy in the beginning? Didn’t that usually take a few years? 

Miranda wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure if she _wanted_ to be sure. 

Miranda never saw another colour with Samuel, and five years into their marriage, when he came home with another woman’s perfume on him—what a cliche, what a humiliation—Miranda was almost relieved. 

She coldly wished him a happy future with his almost-underage mistress and slammed the door in his face, his things in dirty boxes right after him. Screaming at his back about how she was going to ruin his life, his mistress’s life, and his mother’s life, Miranda felt something melting in her. Like the relief. 

She wasn’t cold anymore. Miranda Priestly was climbing her way up _Runway’s_ editorial chain and the only colour she was able to see was navy blue, but she wasn’t cold anymore. 

It felt strange, not to mourn a marriage, but she supposed that it wasn’t particularly one to begin with. 

A soulmate, Samuel was meant to be. _Navy, navy blue_. 

For the first time in five years Miranda wasn’t shivering in her house.

**IV.**

The next colour Miranda saw wasn’t just one. It was a whole array, nearly a whole colour scheme. Oh, the wonders of the human eye! Oh, how she had wished she could’ve seen this much colour before, with its sweeping blues, royal purples, and delicate pinks. The potential, for such a beautiful spread. Imagine what she could do with the entire colour wheel at her disposal. 

But this time, unlike the last, Miranda was not simply focused on the colours. Henry smiled brightly at her, and gently grabbed her hand. 

“Do you see it too?” he asked, softly, as though he were afraid. Miranda has to keep herself from beaming. 

“Yes,” she replied, just as quiet. “I do.” 

“Isn’t it beautiful?” 

His hair is swept back by the wind as the two sit underneath the stars, navy, navy blue surrounding them. His eyes were the palest of blue, and for the first time, Miranda wished that she could just take a little swab, like with a Q-Tip as she did with makeup samples, and paint it all over a magazine for the entire world to see. 

“It is,” she whispered, but she wasn’t looking at the sky. 

When she kissed Henry it was wonderful. Beautiful. She doesn’t mind his stubble and nearly gigged when they broke apart. 

“You’re lovely,” he proclaimed, brushing a finger on her cheek. Feeling a blush rise up her neck she buried her face into his shoulder as he wrapped his arm around her waist. Miranda hummed, and pushed him into the grass, nearly smothering him in kisses. 

“Thank you,” she whispered against his cheek. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” 

Henry closed his eyes and held onto her tightly. 

Miranda was only really able to see around half of the colour wheel, but she found that in this life, in her chance, it was okay. It was enough. 

She had fought so hard, made it so far with just navy blue, that the beauty of the pinks, purples, and more blues were plentiful. She had made do with Samuel but this time with Henry, she doesn’t need to. 

She kissed him on the neck and together, they watched the navy blue sky with its glorious stars, and a beautiful sunrise with pinks, purples, blues, and a missing yellow. (But Miranda didn’t mind.) 

When Henry proposed Miranda didn’t even need to think. This “yes” was easy, but not in the way it had been with Samuel. It was easy because it was. The warmth from his kisses were enough, and as she walked down the aisle a second time, there were no questions. No “what ifs”, no trappings, and most of all, she was _warm_. 

Henry’s good friend from medical school officiated and when their vows were finished, Miranda nearly leaped to kiss him. Henry chuckled, and as they say, that was that. No big, over-the-top ceremony, no outrageously mediocre dress, and most importantly, _no cold._

She’d only seen pinks, purples, and blues, but she swam in bliss, and that, she thought, was enough. 

Henry wanted children. She’d knew from the beginning; she’d seen at how he just beamed at his nieces and nephews. She would give him that, she realised. She would give him that, just like how he gave her beautiful pinks, purples, and warmth. 

The first time the stick showed the two, small lines, barely visible underneath the harsh light of _Runway’s_ bathrooms, Miranda nearly dropped it. Almost sprinting out of the stall, her fingers immediately dialed Henry and told him to meet her at home—scratch that, she’ll drop by his work. 

The look on his face was worth it, and she jumped into his arms when she waved the stick in front of him. 

“You’re su—” 

“You’re having a baby,” Miranda whispered into his ear, and for the first time in a long time, she was happy. Content, like the warmth was going to bubble right out of her. 

“ _We’re_ having a baby,” he gently corrected, and smoothed her hair with a hand. She thought she heard his voice shake a little.

Thank you, she thought. Thank you, thank you, thank you. (She doesn’t need to say it this time.) 

But as she sat in the bathroom, blood spilling around her and as Henry frantically phoned an ambulance, all she could think was _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry_. 

Halfway through she passed out from the pain but with the feeling of his warm—ever, ever so warm—arms around her. 

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

(She could’ve sworn she’d said it out loud.) 

The next time around, they really tried. Miranda tracked her schedule and they made love at any opportunity. Henry had wanted children so bad Miranda wanted nothing more than to give them to him. She’d failed him the first time, she wasn’t going to again. 

When the two lines finally showed up again she’s measured in her excitement, breaking the news to Henry at dinner, her voice reserved and tone quiet. 

“Really?” 

The look on his face was almost enough. 

“Yes, darling,” she replied, rising from her seat and walking around the table to hold his face in her hands. “Yes.” 

He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, hands wandering to her stomach, still flat. “Okay,” he mumbled. “Okay.” 

Miranda gave birth to two beautiful, lovely girls, twins, and laid exhausted on the hospital bed. Watching tiredly as Henry held both of them, she smiled, and took in the sight of her wonderful husband and daughters. 

Henry looked up, his face filled with awe. 

She didn’t need to say it but she did anyways. 

“Thank you.” 

Henry didn’t reply but sat by her bedside, two girls still in his arms, and gently kissed her on the forehead. 

“There’s no need to thank me,” he whispered back. Miranda closed her eyes. 

When their marriage finally fell apart Miranda wasn’t surprised. She couldn’t say she expected it, but she wasn’t surprised. 

They both worked long nights and when one evening Henry came home and announced that he was in love with another woman, Miranda wasn’t surprised. (But it wasn’t to say she wasn’t heartbroken.) 

Henry gave her two of the most brilliant gifts of her life, her daughters and pink, purples, and blues. Miranda Priestly had never been the best wife and reluctantly she let him go, for someone who would give all his love right back to him. 

She didn’t need to say it this time and she didn’t. 

They didn’t bother with a divorce lawyer and the shared custody remained—Henry always loved his daughters and quite frankly, he was the better parent out of them of them. Miranda wasn’t bitter; she knew that her daughters deserved a father that would love them unconditionally and she knew that while yes, she provided that as well, it just wasn’t the same. 

She kept the ring on for the next few years, even after Henry has remarried and the only colours that she’s seen are purples, pinks, and blues. 

(But at least she’s no longer cold.)

**v—interlude.**

Nigel was first man she’d met that could see colour. Completely. 

Meeting young and inexperienced, she had brought him along to _Runway_ when it was still failing and promised him the greatness he had the potential for. Bright-eyed and naive, he followed her and as Miranda built _Runway_ into its glorious, tantalizing towers, he became its colours. 

Nigel had the eye for every single one of them. Miranda had never met his partner, and never thought she would, until she learnt that he had died many years ago when Nigel was still Nick on the poor shores of Rhode Island. 

He, unlike Miranda, had gotten all the colours in one go. Life had never been fair to Miranda—she was used to it, but this time, she couldn’t help but feel a little hint of bitterness. 

Miranda left all colour-related decisions for him, with her consultation, of course, but Nigel had a way with colours that Miranda knew she never could master. 

When he met another man Miranda is the first person he introduced him to, and Miranda congratulated her friend with the brightest of words and wished them every happiness. (She’d thought that Nigel could see every colour but it seemed that there was just one he was missing. Which one, Miranda wasn’t sure.) 

Nigel walked her down the aisle for her first marriage, sat to the side for her second, and nearly officiated her third. 

Miranda wondered if she’d ever see a colour with Nigel, but realised that she didn’t need to. He didn’t need to give her colours directly, he gave _Runway_ colours directly, and Miranda found that that in of itself was enough. Honestly, most people would think it was the same thing. (It’s not, but Miranda wouldn’t go out of her way to correct them.) 

Nigel was a steadiness in her life she’d never had before, a constant through a world of swirling ideas and colours and life, with each one of her corners blown out of proportion and wild into the sea. 

“Thank you,” she said one day, when he’d finished the briefs and was collecting the papers off of her desk. 

He nodded, as though it were a daily occurrence. 

She didn’t say “That’s all”, and she didn’t rush him from her office. 

He didn’t reply but he didn’t need to. 

**VI.**

Stephen was… different. 

Miranda’d thought that she’d met men like him before, the business type with the annoying bluetooth speaker in his ear, yapping away on some kind of big Wall Street deal. She’d thought she’d met his type before, those with the impeccable suits and a history of philandery. 

He was one marriage down with a son from it and a small dog that Patricia hated. 

She’d been single for years; Miranda had never ever really put herself out there like that, and anyways, she had her daughters and she had _Runway,_ so what did it matter? 

The iconography of her career had already developed and _Runway_ was at its peak—Miranda had full plans to keep it there. Of course she flagged away slightly pesky advances here and now, but what woman didn’t? 

It was part of the job, but when Miranda received a messenger delivered note written in flawless calligraphy, she can’t help but feel that this is different. Not necessarily new, but different. 

She agreed to his invitation to dinner. 

The first thing she noticed was that the handkerchief—who the hell still used those?—was bright red, so bright that it nearly clashed with the rest of his black suit. 

Wait—

Red? 

His watch had stripes of orange, and _that_ definitely clashed with the red. 

What the hell? 

She nearly froze walking into the restaurant to meet him, almost late. 

Well. 

This was new. 

This was new _and_ different. 

Miranda hasn’t had something like that in a while, so she ignored the fact that she gained two more colours to her limited palette and focused on his slightly crooked smile with uneven wrinkles. 

The tablecloth was burgundy and the roses that sat to the side of the table were a brilliant red. The lights up above them shone with a very small orangish tint and the lipstick mark she’d left on his cheek was a lovely dark, dark red. (But of course, she knew the last part already.) 

When he offered her a ride home, she accepted and the lining in his car was a lovely shade of vermillion. 

The next few invitations came again—not as formal, of course—and Miranda took them all. She could take all the colour she would get, and she wanted, no _needed,_ it all. The whole colour wheel. 

On their fifth date, Stephen grabbed Miranda by the waist and pulled her in—his eyes shone a brilliant green. 

_Green?_

But he didn’t give her enough time to think and before she knew it, his lips were on hers and his hands were in her hair and Miranda Priestly was kissing a man whose mouth was too rough with a slight stubble and a crooked smile.

The bright lights of New York glittered among them, as Stephen’s penthouse was nearly twenty stories up and Miranda had never felt closer to soaring. 

She wondered if her mother had found what she had been looking for when she left. She wondered if her father had and knows that the answer to both would be no. 

But her hand pulled Stephen’s head closer and all the warmth radiating from his body spread to hers. 

On her way home that night the trees burst into her vision and the grass brought itself to her with the dark, navy blue sky above her and never, ever, had Miranda felt like she’d flown and just landed. 

When it came, she knew that it would be an easy yes. 

Stephen dropped to one knee after around six months of dating and as Miranda had predicted, this was an easy yes. No hesitation, no before or afterthought, just yes and Stephen kissing her. 

He had completed her colour wheel—or as complete as she was going to get it—and he had given her that. 

Forty-nine years old and she had finally seen as much colour as she’d possibly ever hoped for and suddenly, nearly every colour graced the glossy, picture-perfect pages of _Runway_ magazine. 

Their wedding was a small affair, with Caroline and Cassidy as beautiful flower girls and Nick, Stephen’s son, as the officiator. The vows are easy this time, easy like they’d never been before, and Miranda, like she had on the night when she’d seen green, felt like flying. 

She hoped it was only the same for him, and unlike with Samuel and unlike with Henry, she didn’t need to say it and she doesn’t. 

His hand felt warm around her waist and his eyes were beautiful in the setting sun and his lapels were slightly off and Miranda felt a sinking in her chest but it wasn’t a bad one. A tender one. Contentedness.

Her head leaned on his shoulder as they swayed gently to the music. 

The word “happy” was on the tip of her tongue but she couldn’t get it out. 

She supposed it would have to do. 

It did. It did. 

**vii—introduction.**

Miranda has had many assistants, many of them carbon copies of the ones before: long-legged, well blown hair, an absolute love for fashion—oh basically part-time model, don’t forget that—puppy-like affection for Miranda, and the usual incompetence that tended to come with that look. Many of them unremarkable, forgotten within seconds after their tenure.

So when a daringly bold, terribly dressed Andrea Sachs, who was, by the way, wearing the ugliest _clogs_ Miranda had ever seen, floundered into her office—after a “don’t take that in, it’s vulgar,” comment from Emily—Miranda’s interest piped. Intrigued, she was, to say the least. 

The frumpy blazer—if you could even call it that—was about to scorch Miranda’s eyes (if the shoes hadn’t already) as the girl fumbled her way through the “interview”. Her resume brattled prized accomplishments (National Essay Competition, National Rising Journalist of 2005) with cherry-on-top degree from Stanford University. 

Andrea—why ever would she shorten such a respectable name to _Andy_ Miranda didn’t know—went on a short tirade about how she was up to the job, she was _smart,_ she wasn’t into fashion (as if that weren’t already crystal clear from her very apparent lack of it), Miranda remained intrigued. Attentive. 

She’d always been good at spotting talent. There’s no doubt with Andrea; the talent was there, the want, _ambition,_ was there. She just needed a little polishing, that was all. Potential. Miranda looked for it, craved for it almost. Of all the assistants she’d had before, none of them ever radiated the potential Andrea had, the boldness of her little slap with her resume onto Miranda’s desk, the raw ambition crawling behind the girl’s eyes. 

Miranda nearly didn’t believe it; the girl was so young, barely edging on twenty-four but a bright, burning fire seemed to spark within her—someone just needed to set it off. (Then polish. That part was important. _Very_ important.) 

If there was one thing Miranda hated more than a failed marriage, or a disaster of a layout, or the failures of her life, it was unused potential. Andrea wasn’t going to be wasted, and _Runway_ would make sure of that. (Well maybe not from the start. _Runway_ will not put what-Miranda-was-sure-to-be brilliant writing skills to use but rather set the girl up for success.) 

Watching as the girl continued to impress that she was smart, that she learnt quickly, Nigel swept in, bringing disaster after disaster with him. 

Didn’t she ask this to be resolved nearly two days ago? 

(But Nigel’s judgement was strong and she trusted him.) 

Out of the corner of her eye Andrea ducked out of her office, and Miranda found herself asking Emily to go after her, to give the girl the job. 

This was new. 

This was new and different.

New and different and most importantly, _intriguing._

Andrea was late the next morning but that was expected. Of course she had more potential than all of Miranda’s previous assistants combined but that didn’t exclude her from the typical first-day mistakes. 

Miranda nearly smirked at Emily’s quiet but frantic calls to Andrea that echoed into the office—get the hell up and make sure to bring the coffee, centre-of-the-sun hot, remember! And the Hermes scarves. Don’t forget those! Andrea! 

Emily’s fanatics were pretty good entertainment had Miranda had the time to bother herself with them all. 

Miranda also knew that Starbucks had just opened and the Hermes store on Fifth Avenue was closed on Tuesdays. But Miranda has asked for the impossible to made possible over and over again, so why was Andrea any different? 

When Andrea finally made it into the office she was nearly two hours late and Miranda was tapping her fingers on the desk impatiently as she skimmed each layout with colours bursting from every one of them. 

The coffee certainly was _not_ centre-of-the-sun hot and the girl still had her ugly rag of a coat on and the Hermes scarves were nearly tumbling out of the bag, bundling with glamorous neutrals, reds, and yellows—

Wait. 

What? 

Stop. 

Andrea—

But the girl had already ducked back to her alcove as the coffee sat on Miranda’s desk with the scarves at her feet. 

One sat just slightly left to the middle of the bag, with beige backgrounding and yellow highlights. 

_Yellow?_

Her feet nearly stumbled—or as close to stumbling as she could—as she fell back into her chair, hands fiddling with the gold necklace she wore. 

Her eyes darted back down to the bag in front of her. The colour didn’t go away. It sat, flashing almost, as she stared. 

She fought the urge to chuck it into the trash. 

There was no way. She was married, for Christ’s sake! She was _happy_ in this marriage too! A foot shoved the bag under the desk and out of sight. Taking a deep breath she cleared her mind and ignored whatever the hell was beside her. 

“Emily!” 

“She means you!” Emily hissed, presumably at Andrea. It took the girl nearly thirty seconds to her office. 

This was the last person Miranda wanted to see at the moment. 

“When I call for Emily, I mean _Emily_.” 

“Yes, of course Miranda,” the girl stammered. 

The clambering outside of her office was starting to get tiring and when Emily finally came by, Miranda probably aged fifteen years. 

“When I ask you to take your time _Emily,_ I’ll let you know,” she insulted. The redhead flinched and Miranda rolled her eyes. “Whatever in your little mind thought these were the right ones?” 

“I’m so sorry Miranda, I’ll get it fixed right away,” Emily sputtered out, and scrambled to fetch the scarves. 

They were gone within a flash. 

Good. 

Miranda was sure it was an hallucination anyways. Too many days of working late and too little sleep. A trick of the light. 

She just wasn’t sleeping right, she knew. 

Slip of the mind. That’s what Freud called it, right? 

A slip. That was all. 

(Right?) 

Right. 

Just human error. 

Right. 

**VIII.**

They both worked late nights and they held their individual careers to great value. Miranda had never been the best wife, but with Stephen she really tried. Really, really did. He gave her reds and oranges and a contentedness she had not experienced in a long time and he deserved so much more from her. She tried _harder._

For a few months she came home at six o’clock on the dot, right in time for dinner where the girls exchanged stories of their school day, of who hates whom and who dated whom, as Miranda greeted Stephen with a kiss on the cheek with a small promise of more. 

Samuel gave her the first colour she’d ever seen, Henry gifted her with the two most beautiful and lovely daughters she could ever ask for, and Stephen provided her with the most alluring of reds and oranges, and all Miranda had given in return was failed marriage after failed marriage after failed marriage. 

Miranda came home later, cut the nanny’s hours, and went to bed with her husband. The house started to bloom of something new, though Miranda couldn’t exactly say what. 

Things were good. 

Things were good and from experience and experience alone they weren’t meant to stay that way. (God doesn’t love her enough and she had never really believed in Him in the first place.) 

Things were good and she couldn’t help but wonder when it was all going to fuck up. 

(Turned out it didn’t take very long.) 

Preparations with Fashion Week started to smack her right in the head and before she knew it she was walking in at three in the morning, the house deadly silent, almost in a horror movie right before the poorly-written protagonist was going to die. 

The most important week of her life was starting to take over again, as it did year after year. She had made it work every time. (Or so she’d thought.) 

Before she knew it she was across the desk in Stephen’s study with the annoying red accents and ugly orange marks shadowed with a hideous gray and she was shouting. Miranda hadn’t shouted in years, but with Stephen it all seemed to come out. 

“You can’t dictate that!” 

“I’m not asking you to _change_ your life, Miranda,” he spatted. “I’m just asking you to not be late for dinner.” 

“I’ve told you, time and time again, that sometimes it just happens,” she pleaded, almost begging and Miranda Priestly _never_ begged. “That’s just how it is.” 

“It isn’t, and you know it,” he replied, shaking his head. “It’s fine. Forget it.” 

Miranda sighed and pinched her nose with her fingers. She dropped it. 

A sinking went through her and this time it wasn’t the warm, nice type. It was an old one. It was one that she hadn’t felt since Samuel. 

(Tired. That’s what it was.) 

Miranda Priestly was _tired._

It sunk through her chest and straight into her bones. It crept everywhere, almost like a disease that would never leave. 

She stopped bothering to fight with Stephen and doesn’t bother to battle with Irv. (If she was pushed out she was pushed out.) 

Surprisingly Andrea had become a constant in her life. Andrea with the disaster of a sweater and mismatching jewelry paired alongside the most hideous of shoes in the morning as she placed a cup of centre-of-the-sun hot coffee from Starbucks accompanied by an “Anything else, Miranda?” and a smile that could brighten the entire world. 

A steady, solid _yellow._

She hadn’t hallucinated it that day and she knew it. 

Her colour wheel was complete. 

The first time Stephen hit her was in the kitchen, with its flawless and incredibly appliances that were rarely used and a slightly messy paint job Miranda vowed to fix six months ago. 

She’d made it home at nearly three in the morning—her staff was absolutely and utterly incompetent and the layouts were just maybe some of the ugliest things she’d ever seen—and the light was on in the hallway. 

He’d waited up for her and Miranda already had the well-rehearsed apology on the tip of her tongue. 

It took awhile for the slap to come and it was right across her cheek, almost like a straight line of a whip. 

“Miranda, I—” 

She stood there, frozen. 

“I’m—”

“Don’t bother,” she said coldly. A hand was held up. 

“I can go, book a hotel room,” he stammered, almost recoiling from her and scrambling. Miranda shook her head. 

“Don’t bother,” she repeated. Her voice sounded oddly detached. “The guest room is well stocked.” 

Stephen walked up the stairs and she heard his feet pad down the hallway. 

Her cheek was probably bright red; she’d only hope that it hadn’t bruised. (It didn’t but Miranda was meticulously careful with her makeup the next morning, a well-practiced hand sweeping over her skin with state-of-the-earth product. It was barely there but Miranda has, and always will be, diligent.) 

Greeted the next morning with the customary burning coffee, “Anything else, Miranda?” and the brightest of smiles, Miranda felt the heaviness from the night before lift, if only very slightly. But it lifted nonetheless and Miranda had never taken anything for granted. 

Halfway through the busy, dismal day a small sample bottle of concealer right in her shade was left discreetly on the corner of her desk, tucked away behind a photography of Caroline and Cassidy. Miranda frowned as the girl gestured nervously to her left cheek. Miranda felt her neck heat up and a blush rose up. (Andrea knew.)

The _gall_ , the presumption from her second assistant, and out of pure pettiness to the fact that Andrea was right, Miranda only summoned Emily for the rest of the day. 

(Andrea wilted, like a flower, like a beautiful yellow chrysanthemum that once bloomed in the small garden that Miranda’s mother owned.)

But when Miranda wearily returned home she was greeted with an unbelievably calming silence with its darkened rooms and hallowed halls. 

Then it clicked. 

(Yellow started to burn.) 

The lack of shoes at the front door and missing trench coat from the coatroom screamed that Stephen had already left on his flight to D.C., and that Andrea—Andrea, of all people—had scheduled for Miranda to arrive home late.

Unceremoniously, she dropped her bag in the middle of the kitchen and let her coat follow. 

Staring at the ceiling she fell into one of the stools around the island counter, leaning her arms against the cold, cold marble. 

The silence swarmed around her, threatening to swallow. 

Her eyes focused on the sink in front of her, faucet not completely turned off, the water dripping off in small, slow droplets. 

She thought her hands shook. She didn’t know. 

Her head fell onto the counter, the marble almost splashing her awake. 

The sobs came slowly, as though the sinking feeling her bones was rising up and raining down, as though the feeling had just barely, ever so slightly, started to evaporate. 

A hand flew to her mouth as she sat up straight and tried to hold it in. (She couldn’t and she didn’t know why she bothered trying.) 

The sobs came slowly but the tears came easy and the vase of sunflowers escaped Miranda’s eye. 

Catharsis, isn’t that what the Greeks called it? 

Miranda didn’t know how much time had passed when her door opened and a pair of feet padded through the hallway. 

A lovely warmth sprang to her chest, soft yet pounding through her veins. Like a fire had been lit, close enough to thaw but not enough to burn. 

Reliable, reliable Andrea. 

Humming rang through the silence of Miranda’s dark house, a tune she couldn’t recognize but was sure was off the streets of some musical on Broadway. 

Before she knew it Miranda was out of her seat and facing the brunette, whose hair was windswept and cheeks were tinted pink by the cold.

“Thinking of joining the New York Opera?” Miranda smarked, quietly clearing her throat. The girl jumped. 

“No, Miranda,” she chirped. Ever so ready to please, the beautiful, bold Andrea. Emily never would’ve placed concealer on her desk, and certainly not being a photograph of her girls, Emily wouldn’t ever have thought of changing her schedules around Stephen, and Emily never would’ve noticed in the first place. 

She should’ve been mad. But all she felt was a relief. 

(Yellow seemed to be everywhere.) 

The girl gently placed the Book onto the table beside Miranda, the one that had, coincidentally, a bouquet filled with yellow roses. 

“Anything else, Miranda?” 

The smile was straining at its edges. 

Miranda shook her head and placed a hand on the book.

“Okay. Bye, then,” the girl said, giving Miranda a small wave as she started to open the door. “See you tomorrow.” 

Miranda nodded. 

It wasn’t until she had slipped into bed that she realised she’d forgotten to say “That’s all”. 

The second time Stephen hit her it was on the second floor library with its old books Miranda had spent years pouring over and windows that she designed to bring in the most light. 

This time it bruised and this time she kicked him out. (It turned out that he was already renting out an apartment on the corner of sixth and seventh for nearly a year—whether or not it came with a mistress Miranda did not know.) 

Black and blue. 

She made sure to wake up early the next morning, a careful hand meticulously applying the perfect shade onto her jaw and cheek. There would be no need for another bottle of concealer on her desk, tucked behind photographs.

Another failed marriage, she knew. She wondered how long it would take for Stephen to serve up the papers and she supposed she should’ve contacted her lawyer the first time round. (She knew but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.) 

Paris arrangements started to creep up on her, and she found that yellow showed up nearly everywhere on her palette. (Red and oranges started to fall right off—Miranda nearly bit off Emily’s head for bringing in a crimson sweater instead of the beige she had so clearly requested.) 

When she sat the girls down for a talk she’d already walked the road before, she’d expected tears, wailing, _something,_ but Caroline and Cassidy just looked back at her as though she’d told them that another room in the house was being renovated. She wondered if she was meant to be worried. 

No concealer is brought to her and Andrea didn’t give a single indication of anything. Of course, the one time when Miranda wanted to _know._

Emily, the absolute idiot, ran herself into a car and now Miranda was forced to bring a second assistant to Paris instead of the first. (But she was glad that she didn’t need to make up an excuse to bring yellow to the most spectacular event of the year—not that she needed to in the first place.) 

The Hermes scarves she’d asked Emily to replace still had hints of yellow among them, but this time Miranda didn’t detest them and she didn’t ignore them. 

One, however, did catch her eye. 

It sat, crumbled almost, just to the edge of the outrageously fancy bag, a plain canary scarf made of the finest silk in the world. Miranda folded it carefully back into its box and tucked it away in a drawer at her desk. 

(She brought it in her carry-on to France, tucked between expensive perfumes.) 

The papers came in Paris. (She should’ve seen this coming but she hadn’t.) 

The papers came in Paris and this time she properly mourned her marriage, her failure. (She’d never expected to be that woman but it seemed that she was.) 

Pouring a healthy amount of what must’ve been ridiculously expensive scotch into the decanter and then into a heavyset glass, Miranda downed it in one go, the burn in her throat jolting her awake. 

Immediately, she started to warm and Miranda began to understand why Stephen chose this exactly as his escape. Something seemed to lift from her bones, but not quite. As though it wanted to leave. 

She poured another glass, dropping a few ice cubes in, the soft clink ringing through the stillness. Flinging open the ridiculously fancy French doors to the balcony, the freezing air gushed in and Miranda’s eyes followed as a light snow fluttered across the sky. The elegant golden lights of Paris shone beneath, as cars raced by, each driver entranced in their individual lives as the world moved on around them. 

Staring, she drank from the decanter, edging herself outside. 

She was burning. 

A small click of the door opening echoed through the silent room, followed by the thud of a bag being dropped carelessly onto the ground. Slight shuffle of feet; removing shoes, padding of pantyhose-clad feet. 

Leaning against the snow covered balcony railing, she tried to make out the stars shrouded by light pollution and a time of too much on the planet. She was burning. 

A warm hand covered hers. (Miranda was too tired to be shocked, furious, or offended.) 

Dark brown eyes stared at her and the girl’s cheeks were rosy from the cold. Miranda wished she could just take a little swab, like she did with makeup samples and colour schemes and spatter it all over the pages of _Runway._

Andrea gently lead her out of the cold—Miranda had been shivering, she just noticed—and shutting the doors behind her, enclosing them back into the heat of Miranda’s insanely overpriced but provided free of charge hotel room. 

The heavy weight of the decanter left her hand and a small clink of glass rattled. A fridge door opened and the bottle was slid back into place, right beside the other exuberantly expensive drinks. 

Andrea’s hand still held hers. 

The girl should’ve been fired long ago. The nerve, the presumption, the absolute gall. 

But Andrea’s hand gently cradled Miranda’s and the scent of cheap hotel shampoo and the slightest hint of vanilla surrounded her. 

Andrea knelt at Miranda’s feet, grabbing her other hand, holding them at Miranda’s knees. 

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked, ever so earnestly. Her large doe eyes were wide, with compassion or pity, Miranda did not know. At some point she stopped being able to tell the difference and at some point she just gave up. 

Miranda sat up sternly and nearly yanked her hands out of Andrea’s grasp. (She felt cold.) 

“Yes. Your job,” she sharply replied and Andrea scrambled to stand. 

The girl wilted. Miranda felt the sinking her chest again. 

“Yes Miranda,” she dutifully whispered and picked up her bag that sat noticeably next to the giant stack of divorce papers. 

The door clicked shut behind her and Miranda remained on the loveseat, staring at the wall decorated with pieces of fine arts worth who knows how much. 

Some of the yellow acrylic started to flake off. 

Yellow, yellow, yellow. 

The scarf still remained meshed between a Chanel No. 5 and an Armani 6th. 

**vx—pause.**

Rumours of her placement had been swirling for years. The first time Miranda had heard of it was when she was half a year into her job and she knew that it had very little truth to it. The magazine had climbed six figures in profits and if there was anything Irv Ravitz loved it was money. 

They remained and Miranda paid them very little attention. If she had time for every little thing with her name in the press she’d be into her third lifetime. 

But it isn’t until she saw James Huntington III waltz into Irv’s office that she started to take the rumours with a little more seriously. 

She had her contacts and hired a private investigator to look into it for her, and sure enough, Irv had plans to oust her as Editor-in-Chief. It was not surprising, and Miranda had expected it for years. 

Jacqueline Follet was meant to be the next _Runway_ sensation, if it were up to Irv Ravitz, and if it were up to Miranda Priestly, there would be no Jacqueline Follet at all. (It turned out that it was, in fact, up to Miranda Priestly.) 

Follet had been a “rising star” in the industry, quickly climbing up the ladder of _Runway France_ , first given her position by her father. Born into wealth, she walked with an elegance only those gifted with it could even fathom and the delicacy that the French seemed to have mastered but lacked the burning drive that had shoved Miranda out of her poor hometown. 

Irv needed to try harder to remove her, at least better than a little rich girl who rode off of daddy’s coattails for the entirety of her life. Miranda nearly scoffed at the thought of it. 

No one could do what she did. 

She was almost pretty sure that this was a bluff, to force her to stay on budget for the next edition, a petty move made by Irv for simplicity only. The thought that Jacqueline Follet could even come close to what Miranda Priestly had balanced for years was almost insane. 

Miranda’d play along with the game. 

She threw together a quick list of some of the largest names in the industry, each one of them brilliant, each one of them completely loyal to her. Careers she had nurtured, people she had mentored, all at the top of their game. Miranda knew that Irv, literally and figuratively, could not afford to lose her. 

There, she finished. That should be enough. (The names were scrawled messily in her familiar script, looping on and off the page.)

The list was tucked into a desk drawer, nestled neatly beside the Hermes scarf. It too, was brought on her carry-on to Paris. 

Miranda wasn’t worried, but she wondered if she should’ve been. 

When Miranda dangled the Holt job in front of Follet, she lusted for it harder than expected. 

A twinge of regret rang through her at Nigel’s loss, but she would pay him back, in due time. She always did. 

Smirking, she strutted to Irv’s room, knowing she had him beat. This would be it. (She had full plans to out _him_ as CEO after this whole debachtable was over.) 

A barely there smile greeted her as the door opened and a butler with what was sure to be at least a hundred dollar suit stood to their left. Irv mumbled a “come in” and Miranda’s smirk grew wider. 

In a faux gentlemanly manner he took her coat and pulled out her chair. His cologne was nauseating and Miranda remembered cheap hotel shampoo and vanilla. 

Getting right down to business she slipped him the piece of paper across the table, the one she’d brought in her carry-on beside the scarf and expensive state-of-the-art perfume 

“What’s this?” he asked, even though he knew, and Miranda knew. Well, two could play this game. Miranda tilted her head. 

“It’s a list of the people that would come with me if I ever chose to leave _Runway_ ,” she quietly explained, nearly crooning. 

The man’s grin disappeared and he visibly swallowed. Miranda hid her grin behind a napkin. 

“Jacqueline has gracefully accepted to be director of fashion for Holt International,” she went on, and the man slammed his fork onto the table. They hadn’t even started eating yet. 

“Oh really?” he feigned, and wiped his mouth. 

Might as well dig in the knife. 

“I want you to triple the budget for the next five fiscal periods,” she began, daintily picking up a fork to begin her meal. “Remove any and all editorial privileges deemed to the board and we needn’t discuss this any further.” 

She gestured to the paper and this time he gulped. 

Irv nodded. 

Miranda extended a hand across the table and he shook it, reluctant as he looked. 

Flashing him a faux smile she stood up, not even finishing her meal when a loud banging resounded through the room. God, couldn’t Irv get his staff together? 

She flung open the door and—

What the hell?

A frantic Andrea appeared before her, hair dishevelled and distinctively smelling of another man’s room, very, very clearly of sex. 

Miranda wrinkled her nose and seethed. How dare she? 

“What are you doing here?” she hissed, watching as the girl floundered. 

“I need to tell you somet—” 

“Leave,” Miranda spat. “ _Now_.” 

She slammed the door. 

“Don’t you want to hear her out?” Irv innocently asked, as though they didn’t just complete a deal that would fuck his career. 

“No,” she replied simply. 

She forgot to tell Nigel. 

Ignoring his face in the crowd—she didn’t think that she could stand it. 

Announcing with the fakest pride and a strained smile, she wanted to fling herself into the sun, but knew that all costs, Miranda Priestly came first to Miranda Priestly. 

(She told herself that if she had been removed, if Irv had succeeded, Nigel wouldn’t have a job at all, but she knew that it was far from the truth. His name, after all, was on the list.)

She may have ignored Nigel’s expression but she sure as hell didn’t miss Andrea’s. 

The girl sat there, wide-eyed and mouth slightly dropped open, nearly in a perfect “O”, lips painted a lovely red. 

(Miranda wondered if Andrea’s unrelenting idealism and morals would force her to leave _Runway_.) 

She found that she didn’t want that to happen. 

Hurrying to the car right after the event, spending only ten minutes after the speeches for pure image, she calmly settled herself in, waiting quietly for Andrea. 

Miranda Priestly, _waiting._ The Hermes scarf was in her bag. 

Andrea slid in a few minutes later, with Miranda quickly ordering the driver to leave. 

The roads blurred past. 

“I see a great deal of myself in you,” Miranda began. Miranda Priestly doesn’t explain herself but Andrea must understand. She _must._

“What—” the girl stammered. The blush was a really lovely colour on her. 

“The ambition, the drive,” Miranda continued. Andrea _needed_ to understand. 

“I couldn’t,” she stuttered. “I couldn’t do what you did to Nigel, Miranda. I couldn’t.” Her eyes were wide, bright. 

“But you did.” Miranda’s face flashed. “To Emily.” 

Andrea looked aghast. “No, I didn’t,” she insisted. 

Miranda turned back to the window.

“That, I didn’t have a choice. She didn’t know,” Andrea explained. Miranda’s head sharply turned back. 

“You didn’t tell her?” 

“Well she broke her leg. There was no way she was going to Fashion Week,” Andrea quickly put out. 

Miranda huffed. 

“I’m not like you.” 

The sinking came back. 

“Don’t be silly.” 

“I don’t want this.” 

“Everyone wants this, Andrea. Everyone wants to be us,” she replied. Slipping on her sunglasses and putting on her faux smile, she stepped out of the car, cameras flashing in her face left and right. 

She reached back, to grab Andrea’s arm, to haul her assistant with her past the paparazzi, but her hand touched nothing. 

What— 

Her head whipped around, eyes desperately searching for the girl. 

Oh. 

Andrea had just been pushed back a bit. 

Miranda sighed of relief. 

Oh. 

The sinking feeling was gone. 

Miranda sat in the kitchen, quietly nursing a glass of wine. The bottle was to her right, barely open, having hardly cracked down on it. 

Absentmindedly swirling the liquid, the front door clicked open and a pair of heels clacked in until they didn’t, replaced by the soft padding of pantyhose-clad feet. 

_Andrea._

The divorce had been finalized today, and Andrea hadn’t ever needed to place another bottle of concealer on her desk. 

The girl walked in, Miranda hearing the door of the closet being cracked open as the dry cleaning was dropped off. 

“Andrea,” Miranda called. 

Quietly, she made her way through the hallway, the slight jingling of her jewelry echoing through the silence.

“Yes Miranda?” 

Miranda tilted her glass to the seat across from her. Dropping the Book in front of her, Andrea fumbled her way to the chair. 

Miranda slid a small box across the table. 

“Miranda?” 

She nodded towards the box. 

Andrea carefully grabbed it and looked apprehensively at Miranda. 

She nodded again. 

Strong hands opened the lid and a beautiful, canary yellow scarf fell out, smooth as silk and shining in the dim light of the kitchen. Andrea looked strangely at Miranda. 

“What’s this?” 

“For you,” Miranda replied, matter-of-factly. 

Andrea frowned. She seemed like she wanted to say something else, but refrained. 

“Okay,” she began. Her hands played with the material. “Thank you.” 

Miranda reached across and took the scarf gently from her, beginning to tie it around the girl’s lovely neck. Finishing it with a well-practiced bow, it radiated off Andrea’s pale skin and brought out the girl’s eyes. 

“There.” 

Andrea put her hands on Miranda’s waist. They were warm.

“I can’t kiss you,” she whispered. The scarf really did look lovely. Miranda felt Andrea’s forehead against hers. “Not right now.” 

“Okay.” 

“I really can’t,” Andrea said. “Let me find another job.”

Miranda didn’t care. 

She pulled Andrea closer, her strong, warm body against hers as her mouth captured the beautiful woman’s lips. She was so warm, ever so warm, tasting like chapstick and a hint of Dior lipstick. 

The feeling in her bones floated up up and away, replaced with the firmness of Andrea’s warmth. 

Of her steadiness. 

Miranda pulled back first. 

_Andrea._

“Okay,” she said. “Okay.” 

Andrea held Miranda’s face in her hands. 

The yellow really did look lovely. 

(They would figure it out. Maybe it would take months, years, but they would figure it out.) 

Miranda’s colour wheel was complete. 

**FIN.**

> _“The long way ‘round is sometimes the only way home.” —Wayne Hussey_

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this little piece I wrote mainly as an exercise to get back into the swing of things again. I'm definitely hoping to bring you more content in the future, so keep an eye out! Comments are always appreciated.


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